calamities gave place to hope, on the assurance of her physician, thatby the mild air of a more southern climate she might probably berestored to health and activity.

The favourite wish of her heart, that of beholding her relations, fromwhom she had been so many years divided, it was now in her power togratify. From her elder brother she had frequently received invitations,the most pressing and affectionate, to quit for ever a country where anunprotected woman rarely fails to become the victim of calumny andpersecution, and to take shelter in the bosom of domestic tranquillity,where peace, to which she had long been a stranger, might still awaither. Delighted with the idea of combining with the object of her travelsan acquisition so desirable, and after which her exhausted heart panted,she eagerly embraced the proposal, and set out to Paris, with theresolution of proceeding to Leghorn. But a letter, on her arrival, fromher physician, prescribing the warm baths of Aix-la-Chapelle in Germany,as a certain restorative for her complaints, frustrated her plans. Oncemore she proceeded in melancholy pursuit of that blessing which she wasdestined never more to obtain.

During her sojourn at Aix-la-Chapelle, a dawn of comparativetranquillity soothed her spirits. Secure from the machinations of herenemies, she determined, though happiness seemed no more within herreach, to endeavour to be content. The assiduities and attentions shownher by all ranks of people presented a striking medium between thevolatility and libertine homage offered to her at Paris, and thepersevering malignity which had followed her in her native land. Herbeauty, the affecting state of her health, the attraction of hermanners, and the powers of her mind, interested every heart in herfavour; while the meekness with which she submitted to her fate excitedan admiration not less fervent, and more genuine, than her charms in thefull blaze of their power had ever extorted.

Among the many illustrious and enlightened persons then resident atAix-la-Chapelle, who honoured Mrs. Robinson by their friendship, shereceived from the late amiable and unfortunate Duke and Duchess duChâtelet peculiar marks of distinction. The duke had, while ambassadorin England, been the friend and associate of the learned Lord Mansfield;his duchess, the _élève_ of Voltaire, claimed as her godmother GabrielleEmilia, Baroness du Châtelet, so celebrated by that lively and admirablewriter. This inestimable family, consisting of the duke and duchess,their nephews the Counts de Damas, and a niece married to the Duke deSimianne, were indefatigable in their efforts to solace the afflictionand amuse the mind of their fair friend. Balls, concerts, ruralbreakfasts, succeeded to each other in gay and attractive variety; thehappy effects produced on the health and spirits of Mrs. Robinson wereconsidered by this English family as an ample compensation for theirsolicitude. When compelled by severer paroxysms of her malady to secludeherself from their society, a thousand kind stratagems were planned andexecuted to relieve her sufferings, or soften the dejection to whichthey unavoidably gave rise. Sometimes, on entering her dark andmelancholy bath, the gloom of which was increased by high gratedwindows, she beheld the surface of the water covered with rose-leaves,while the vapour baths were impregnated with aromatic odours. Theyounger part of the family, when pain deprived Mrs. Robinson of rest,frequently passed the night beneath her windows, charming her sufferingsand beguiling her of her sorrows, by singing her favourite airs to theaccompaniment of the mandolin.

About this period Mrs. Robinson had the misfortune to lose her brave andrespected father,--a blow as forcible as unexpected, which nearly shookher faculties, and, for a time, wholly overwhelmed her spirits. CaptainDarby had, on the failure of his fortunes, been presented to the commandof a small ordnance vessel, through the interest of some of his nobleassociates in the Indian expedition. Not having been regularly bred tothe sea, this was the only naval appointment which he could receive.Enthusiastically attached to his profession, he omitted no occasion ofsignalising himself. The siege of Gibraltar, in the year 1783, affordedto him an opportunity after which he had long panted, when his smallvessel and gallant crew extorted by their courage and exertions theadmiration and applause of the fleet. Having fought till his rigging wasnearly destroyed, he turned his attention to the sinking Spaniards, whomhe sought to snatch from the flaming wrecks, floating around him in alldirections, and had the satisfaction to preserve, though at the hazardof his life, some hundreds of his fellow beings. The vessel of CaptainDarby was the first that reached the rock by nearly an hour. On hislanding, General Elliot received and embraced him with the plaudits dueto his gallant conduct.

In the presence of his officers, the general lamented that so brave aman had not been bred to a profession to which his intrepidity wouldhave done distinguished honour. To this eulogium he added, that, withthe courage of a lion, Captain Darby possessed the firmness of the rockwhich he had so bravely defended.

To his care was entrusted by the commander a copy of the despatches,which Captain Darby delivered four and twenty hours before the arrivalof the regular vessel. For this diligence, and the conduct which hadpreceded it, he received the thanks of the Board of Admiralty, while onthe other captain was bestowed the more substantial recompense of fivehundred pounds. An injustice so glaring was not calculated to lessenCaptain Darby's distaste for England, which he quitted, after taking ofhis unhappy family an affectionate farewell.

At sixty-two years of age, he set out to regain in a foreign country thefortune he had sacrificed in the service of his own. With powerfulrecommendations from the Duke of Dorset and the Count de Simolin, heproceeded to Petersburg. From the Count de Simolin he continued toexperience, till the latest period of his existence, a steady andzealous friendship. Captain Darby had been but two years in the Russianimperial service when he was promoted to the command of a seventy-fourgun ship, with a promise of the appointment of admiral on the firstvacancy. On the 5th of December, 1785, death put a stop to his career.He was buried with military honours, and attended to the grave by hisfriends, Admiral Greig, the Counts Czernichef and De Simolin, with theofficers of the fleet.[43]

This honourable testimony to her father's worth was the only consolationremaining to his daughter, whose enfeebled health and broken spiritssunk beneath these repeated strokes.

During the four succeeding years of the life of Mrs. Robinson, but fewevents occurred worthy of remark. In search of lost health, which shehad so long and vainly pursued, she determined to repair to the baths ofSt. Amand, in Flanders, those receptacles of loathsome mud, and ofreptiles, unknown to other soils, which fasten on the bodies of thosewho bathe. Mrs. Robinson made many visits to these distasteful ditchesbefore she could prevail on herself to enter them. Neither the exampleof her fellow sufferers, nor the assurance of cures performed by theirwonderful efficacy, could for a long time overcome her disgust. Atlength, solicitude for the restoration of her health, added to theearnest remonstrances of her friends, determined her on making theeffort. For the purpose of being near the baths, which must be enteredan hour before the rising of the sun, she hired a small but beautifulcottage near the spring, where she passed the summer of 1787. Thesepeaceful vales and venerable woods were, at no distant period, destinedto become the seat of war and devastation, and the very cottage in whichMrs. Robinson resided was converted into the headquarters of aRepublican French general.[44]

[Illustration: The Prince of Wales From a painting by Sir ThomasLawrence]

Every endeavour to subdue her disorder proving ineffectual, Mrs.Robinson relinquished her melancholy and fruitless pursuit, and resolvedonce more to return to her native land. Proceeding through Paris, shereached England in the beginning of 1787, from which period may be datedthe commencement of her literary career. On her arrival in London shewas affectionately received by the few friends whose attachment neitherdetraction nor adverse fortunes could weaken or estrange. During anabsence of five years death had made inroads in the little circle of herconnections; many of those whose idea had been her solace in affliction,and whose welcome she had delighted to anticipate, were now, alas!no more.[45]

Once more established in London, and surrounded by social and rationalfriends, Mrs. Robinson began to experience comparative tranquillity. ThePrince of Wales, with his brother the Duke of York, frequently honouredher residence with their presence; but the state of her health, whichrequired more repose, added to the indisposition of her daughter, whowas threatened by a consumptive disorder, obliged her to withdraw to asituation of greater retirement. Maternal solicitude for a beloved andonly child now wholly engaged her attention; her assiduities wereincessant and exemplary for the restoration of a being to whom she hadgiven life, and to whom she was fondly devoted.

In the course of the summer she was ordered by her physician toBrighthelmstone, for the benefit of sea bathing. During hours of tediouswatching over the health of her suffering child, Mrs. Robinson beguiledher anxiety by contemplating the ocean, whose successive waves, breakingupon the shore, beat against the wall of their little garden. To a mindnaturally susceptible, and tinctured by circumstances with sadness, thisoccupation afforded a melancholy pleasure, which could scarcely berelinquished without regret. Whole nights were passed by Mrs. Robinsonat her window in deep meditation, contrasting with her present situationthe scenes of her former life.

Every device which a kind and skilful nurse could invent to cheer andamuse her charge was practised by this affectionate mother, during themelancholy period of her daughter's confinement. In the intervals ofmore active exertion, the silence of a sick-chamber proving favourableto the muse, Mrs. Robinson poured forth those poetic effusions whichhave done so much honour to her genius and decked her tomb with unfadinglaurels. Conversing one evening with Mr. Richard Burke,[46] respectingthe facility with which modern poetry was composed, Mrs. Robinsonrepeated nearly the whole of those beautiful lines, which were afterwardgiven to the public, addressed: "To him who will understand them."

"LINES

"TO HIM WHO WILL UNDERSTAND THEM

"Thou art no more my bosom's friend; Here must the sweet delusion end, That charmed my senses many a year, Through smiling summers, winters drear. Oh, friendship! am I doomed to find Thou art a phantom of the mind? A glitt'ring shade, an empty name, An air-born vision's vap'rish flame? And yet, the dear deceit so long Has wak'd to joy my matin song, Has bid my tears forget to flow, Chas'd ev'ry pain, sooth'd ev'ry woe; That truth, unwelcome to my ear, Swells the deep sigh, recalls the tear, Gives to the sense the keenest smart, Checks the warm pulses of the heart, Darkens my fate, and steals away Each gleam of joy through life's sad day.

"Britain, farewell! I quit thy shore; My native country charms no more; No guide to mark the toilsome road; No destin'd clime; no fix'd abode: Alone and sad, ordain'd to trace The vast expanse of endless space; To view, upon the mountain's height, Through varied shades of glimm'ring light, The distant landscape fade away In the last gleam of parting day: Or, on the quiv'ring lucid stream, To watch the pale moon's silv'ry beam; Or when, in sad and plaintive strains, The mournful Philomel complains, In dulcet tones bewails her fate, And murmurs for her absent mate; Inspir'd by sympathy divine, I'll weep her woes--for they are mine. Driv'n by my fate, where'er I go, O'er burning plains, o'er hills of snow, Or on the bosom of the wave, The howling tempest doom'd to brave,-- Where'er my lonely course I bend, Thy image shall my steps attend; Each object I am doom'd to see, Shall bid remembrance picture thee. Yes; I shall view thee in each flow'r, That changes with the transient hour: Thy wand'ring fancy I shall find Borne on the wings of every wind: Thy wild impetuous passions trace O'er the white waves' tempestuous space; In every changing season prove An emblem of thy wav'ring love.

This _improvisatore_ produced in her auditor not less surprise thanadmiration, when solemnly assured by its author that this was the firsttime of its being repeated. Mr. Burke[47] entreated her to commit thepoem to writing, a request which was readily complied with. Mrs.Robinson had afterward the gratification of finding this offspring ofher genius inserted in the _Annual Register_, with a flattering encomiumfrom the pen of the eloquent and ingenious editor.

Mrs. Robinson continued to indulge in this solace for her dejectedspirits, and in sonnets, elegies, and odes, displayed the powers andversatility of her mind. On one of these nights of melancholyinspiration she discovered from her window a small boat, struggling inthe spray, which dashed against the wall of her garden. Presently twofishermen brought on shore in their arms a burthen, which,notwithstanding the distance, Mrs. Robinson perceived to be a humanbody, which the fishermen, after covering with a sail from their boat,left on the land and disappeared. But a short time elapsed before themen returned, bringing with them fuel, with which they vainlyendeavoured to reanimate their unfortunate charge. Struck with acircumstance so affecting, which the stillness of the night rendered yetmore impressive, Mrs. Robinson remained some time at her window,motionless with horror. At length, recovering her recollection, shealarmed the family; but before they could gain the beach the men hadagain departed. The morning dawned, and day broke in upon the tragicalscene. The bathers passed and reprised with little concern, while thecorpse continued extended on the shore, not twenty yards from theSteine. During the course of the day, many persons came to look on thebody, which still remained unclaimed and unknown. Another day wore away,and the corpse was unburied, the lord of the manor having refused to afellow being a grave in which his bones might decently repose, allegingas an excuse that he did not belong to that parish. Mrs. Robinson,humanely indignant at the scene which passed, exerted herself, butwithout success, to procure by subscription a small sum for performingthe last duties to a wretched outcast. Unwilling, by an ostentatiousdisplay of her name, to offend the higher and more fastidious femalepowers, she presented to the fishermen her own contribution, anddeclined further to interfere. The affair dropped; and the body of thestranger, being dragged to the cliff, was covered by a heap of stones,without the tribute of a sigh or the ceremony of a prayer.

These circumstances made on the mind of Mrs. Robinson a deep and lastingimpression; even at a distant period she could not repeat them withouthorror and indignation. This incident gave rise to the poem entitled"The Haunted Beach," written but a few months before her death.

In the winter of 1790, Mrs. Robinson entered into a poeticalcorrespondence with Mr. Robert Merry, under the fictitious names of"Laura," and "Laura Maria;" Mr. Merry assuming the title of "DellaCrusca."[48]

Mrs. Robinson now proceeded in her literary career with redoubledardour; but, dazzled by the false metaphors and rhapsodical extravaganceof some contemporary writers, she suffered her judgment to be misled andher taste to be perverted; an error of which she became afterwardsensible. During her poetical disguise, many complimentary poems wereaddressed to her; several ladies of the Blue Stocking Club, while Mrs.Robinson remained unknown, even ventured to admire, nay more, to reciteher productions in their learned and critical coterie.

The attention which this novel species of correspondence excited, andthe encomiums which were passed on her poems, could not fail to gratifythe pride of the writer, who sent her next performance, with her ownsignature, to the paper published under the title of _The World_,avowing herself at the same time the author of the lines signed "Laura,"and "Laura Maria." This information being received by Mr. Bell, though aprofessed admirer of the genius of Mrs. Robinson, with some degree ofskepticism, he replied, "That the poem with which Mrs. Robinson hadhonoured him was vastly pretty; but that he was well acquainted with theauthor of the productions alluded to." Mrs. Robinson, a little disgustedat this incredulity, immediately sent for Mr. Bell, whom she found meansto convince of her veracity, and of his own injustice.

In 1791 Mrs. Robinson produced her quarto poem, entitled "Ainsi va leMonde." This work, containing three hundred and fifty lines, was writtenin twelve hours, as a reply to Mr. Merry's "Laurel of Liberty," whichwas sent to Mrs. Robinson on a Saturday; on the Tuesday following theanswer was composed and given to the public.

Encouraged by popular approbation beyond her most sanguine hopes, Mrs.Robinson now published her first essay in prose, in the romance of"Vancenza," of which the whole edition was sold in one day, and of whichfive impressions have since followed. It must be confessed that thisproduction owed its popularity to the celebrity of the author's name,and the favourable impression of her talents given to the public by herpoetical compositions, rather than to its intrinsic merit. In the sameyear the poems of Mrs. Robinson were collected and published in onevolume. The names of nearly six hundred subscribers, of the mostdistinguished rank and talents, graced the list which precedes the work.

The mind of Mrs. Robinson, beguiled by these pursuits from preying uponitself, became gradually reconciled to the calamitous state of herhealth; the mournful certainty of total and incurable lameness, whileyet in the bloom and summer of life, was alleviated by the consciousnessof intellectual resource, and by the activity of a fertile fancy. In1791 she passed the greater part of the summer at Bath, occupied inlighter poetical compositions. But even from this relief she was now forawhile debarred; the perpetual exercise of the imagination andintellect, added to a uniform and sedentary life, affected the system ofher nerves, and contributed to debilitate her frame. She was prohibitedby her physician, not merely from committing her thoughts to paper, but,had it been possible, from thinking at all. No truant, escaped fromschool, could receive more pleasure in eluding a severe master, than didMrs. Robinson, when, the vigilance of her physician relaxing, she couldonce more resume her books and her pen.

As an example of the facility and rapidity with which she composed, thefollowing anecdote may be given. Returning one evening from the bath,she beheld, a few paces before her chair, an elderly man, hurried alongby a crowd of people, by whom he was pelted with mud and stones. Hismeek and unresisting deportment exciting her attention, she inquiredwhat were his offences, and learned with pity and surprise that he wasan unfortunate maniac, known only by the appellation of "mad Jemmy." Thesituation of this miserable being seized her imagination and became thesubject of her attention. She would wait whole hours for the appearanceof the poor maniac, and, whatever were her occupations, the voice of madJemmy was sure to allure her to the window. She would gaze upon hisvenerable but emaciated countenance with sensations of awe almostreverential, while the barbarous persecutions of the thoughtless crowdnever failed to agonise her feelings.

One night after bathing, having suffered from her disorder more thanusual pain, she swallowed, by order of her physician, near eighty dropsof laudanum. Having slept for some hours, she awoke, and calling herdaughter, desired her to take a pen and write what she should dictate.Miss Robinson, supposing that a request so unusual might proceed fromthe delirium excited by the opium, endeavoured in vain to dissuade hermother from her purpose. The spirit of inspiration was not to besubdued, and she repeated, throughout, the admirable poem of "TheManiac,"[49] much faster than it could be committed to paper.

She lay, while dictating, with her eyes closed, apparently in the stuporwhich opium frequently produces, repeating like a person talking in hersleep. This affecting performance, produced in circumstances sosingular, does no less credit to the genius than to the heart ofthe author.

On the ensuing morning Mrs. Robinson had only a confused idea of whathad passed, nor could be convinced of the fact till the manuscript wasproduced. She declared that she had been dreaming of mad Jemmythroughout the night, but was perfectly unconscious of having been awakewhile she composed the poem, or of the circumstances narrated byher daughter.

Mrs. Robinson, in the following summer, determined on anothercontinental tour, purposing to remain some time at Spa. She longed oncemore to experience the friendly greeting and liberal kindness which evenher acknowledged talents had in her native country failed to procure.She quitted London in July, 1792, accompanied by her mother anddaughter. The susceptible and energetic mind, fortunately for itspossessor, is endowed with an elastic power, that enables it to riseagain from the benumbing effects of those adverse strokes of fortune towhich it is but too vulnerable. If a lively imagination add poignancy todisappointment, it also has in itself resources unknown to more equaltemperaments. In the midst of the depressing feelings which Mrs.Robinson experienced in once more becoming a wanderer from her home, shecourted the inspiration of the muse, and soothed, by the followingbeautiful stanzas, the melancholy sensations that oppressed her heart.

On landing at Calais, Mrs. Robinson hesitated whether to proceed. Totravel through Flanders, then the seat of war, threatened too manyperils to be attempted with impunity; she determined, therefore, forsome time to remain at Calais, the insipid and spiritless amusements ofwhich presented little either to divert her attention or engage hermind. Her time passed in listening to the complaints of the impoverishedaristocrats, or in attending to the air-built projects of theirtriumphant adversaries. The arrival of travellers from England, or thereturn of those from Paris, alone diversified the scene, and afforded aresource to the curious and active inquirer.

The sudden arrival of her husband gave a turn to the feelings of Mrs.Robinson: he had crossed the channel for the purpose of carrying back toEngland his daughter, whom he wished to present to a brother newlyreturned from the East Indies. Maternal conflicts shook on this occasionthe mind of Mrs. Robinson, which hesitated between a concern for theinterests of her beloved child, from whom she had never been separated,and the pain of parting from her. She resolved at length on accompanyingher to England, and, with this view, quitted Calais on the memorable 2dof September, 1792,[50] a day which will reflect on the annals of therepublic an indelible stain.

They had sailed but a few hours when the _arrêt_ arrived, by which everyBritish subject throughout France was restrained.

Mrs. Robinson rejoiced in her escape, and anticipated with delight theidea of seeing her daughter placed in wealthy protection, the greatpassport in her own country to honour and esteem. Miss Robinson receivedfrom her new relation the promise of protection and favour, uponcondition that she renounced for ever the filial tie which united her toboth parents. This proposal was rejected by the young lady with properprinciple and becoming spirit.

In the year 1793 a little farce, entitled "Nobody," was written by Mrs.Robinson. This piece, designed as a satire on female gamesters, wasreceived at the theatre, the characters distributed, and preparationsmade for its exhibition. At this period one of the principal performersgave up her part, alleging that the piece was intended as a ridicule onher particular friend. Another actress also, though in "herself a host,"was intimidated by a letter, informing her that "'Nobody' should bedamned!" The author received likewise, on the same day, a scurrilous,indecent, and ill-disguised scrawl, signifying to her that the farce wasalready condemned. On the drawing up of the curtain, several persons inthe galleries, whose liveries betrayed their employers, were heard todeclare that they were sent to do up "Nobody." Even women ofdistinguished rank hissed through their fans. Notwithstanding thesemanoeuvres and exertions, the more rational part of the audience seemedinclined to hear before they passed judgment, and, with a firmness thatnever fails to awe, demanded that the piece should proceed. The firstact was accordingly suffered without interruption; a song in the secondbeing unfortunately encored, the malcontents once more ventured to raisetheir voices, and the malignity that had been forcibly suppressed burstforth with redoubled violence. For three nights the theatre presented ascene of confusion, when the authoress, after experiencing thegratification of a zealous and sturdy defence, thought proper wholly towithdraw the cause of contention.[51]

Mrs. Robinson in the course of this year lost her only remaining parent,whom she tenderly loved and sincerely lamented. Mrs. Darby expired inthe house of her daughter, who, though by far the least wealthy of herchildren, had proved herself through life the most attentive andaffectionate. From the first hour of Mr. Darby's failure andestrangement from his family, Mrs. Robinson had been the protector andthe support of her mother. Even when pressed herself by pecuniaryembarrassment, it had been her pride and pleasure to shelter her widowedparent, ands preserve her from inconvenience.

Mrs. Darby had two sons, merchants, wealthy and respected in thecommercial world; but to these gentlemen Mrs. Robinson would neversuffer her mother to apply for any assistance that was not voluntarilyoffered. The filial sorrow of Mrs. Robinson on her loss, for many monthsaffected her health; even to the latest hour of her life her griefappeared renewed when any object presented itself connected with thememory of her departed mother.

Few events of importance occurred during the five following years,excepting that through this period the friends of Mrs. Robinson observedwith concern the gradual ravages which indisposition and mental anxietywere daily making upon her frame. An ingenuous, affectionate,susceptible heart is seldom favourable to the happiness of thepossessor. It was the fate of Mrs. Robinson to be deceived where shemost confided, to experience treachery and ingratitude where she had atitle to kindness and a claim to support. Frank and unsuspicious, shesuffered her conduct to be guided by the impulse of her feelings; and,by a too credulous reliance on the apparent attachment of those whom sheloved, and in whom she delighted to trust, she laid herself open to theimpositions of the selfish, and the stratagems of the crafty.

In 1799 her increasing involvements and declining health pressed heavilyupon her mind. She had voluntarily relinquished those comforts andelegancies to which she had been accustomed; she had retrenched even hernecessary expenses, and nearly secluded herself from society. Herphysician had declared that by exercise only could her existence beprolonged; yet the narrowness of her circumstances obliged her to foregothe only means by which it could be obtained. Thus, a prisoner in herown house, she was deprived of every solace but that which could beobtained by the activity of her mind, which at length sank underexcessive exertion and inquietude.

Indisposition had for nearly five weeks confined her to her bed, when,after a night of extreme suffering and peril, through which herphysician hourly expected her dissolution, she had sunk into a gentleand balmy sleep. At this instant her chamber door was forcibly pushedopen, with a noise that shook her enfeebled frame nearly toannihilation, by two strange and ruffian-looking men, who entered withbarbarous abruptness. On her faintly inquiring the occasion of thisoutrage, she was informed that one of her unwelcome visitors was anattorney, and the other his client, who had thus, with as little decencyas humanity, forced themselves into the chamber of an almost expiringwoman. The motive of this intrusion was to demand her appearance, as awitness, in a suit pending against her brother, in which these men wereparties concerned. No entreaties could prevail on them to quit thechamber, where they both remained, questioning, in a manner the mostunfeeling and insulting, the unfortunate victim of their audacity andpersecution. One of them, the client, with a barbarous and unmanlysneer, turning to his confederate, asked, "Who, to see the lady theywere now speaking to, could believe that she had once been called thebeautiful Mrs. Robinson?" To this he added other observations not lesssavage and brutal; and, after throwing on the bed a subpoena, quittedthe apartment. The wretch who could thus, by insulting the sick, andviolating every law of humanity and common decency, disgrace the figureof a man, was a professor and a priest of that religion which enjoins us"not to break the bruised reed," "and to bind up the broken in heart!"His name shall be suppressed, through respect to the order of which heis an unworthy member. The consequences of this brutality upon the poorinvalid were violent convulsions, which had nearly extinguished thestruggling spark of life.

By slow degrees her malady yielded to the cares and skill of her medicalattendants, and she was once more restored to temporary convalescence;but from that time her strength gradually decayed. Though her frame wasshaken to its centre, her circumstances compelled her still to exert thefaculties of her mind.

The sportive exercises of fancy were now converted into toilsome laboursof the brain,--nights of sleepless anxiety were succeeded by days ofvexation and dread.

About this period she was induced to undertake the poetical departmentfor the editor of a morning paper,[52] and actually commenced a seriesof satirical odes, on local and temporary subjects, to which was affixedthe signature of "Tabitha Bramble." Among these lighter compositions,considered by the author as unworthy of a place with her collectedpoems, a more matured production of her genius was occasionallyintroduced, of which the following "Ode to Spring," written April 30,1780, is a beautiful and affecting example:

"ODE TO SPRING

"Life-glowing season! odour-breathing Spring! Deck'd in cerulean splendours!--vivid,--warm, Shedding soft lustre on the rosy hours, And calling forth their beauties! balmy Spring! To thee the vegetating world begins To pay fresh homage. Ev'ry southern gale Whispers thy coming;--every tepid show'r Revivifies thy charms. The mountain breeze Wafts the ethereal essence to the vale, While the low vale returns its fragrant hoard With tenfold sweetness. When the dawn unfolds Its purple splendours 'mid the dappled clouds, Thy influence cheers the soul. When noon uplifts Its burning canopy, spreading the plain Of heaven's own radiance with one vast of light, Thou smil'st triumphant! Ev'ry little flow'r Seems to exult in thee, delicious Spring, Luxuriant nurse of nature! By the stream, That winds its swift course down the mountain's side, Thy progeny are seen;--young primroses, And all the varying buds of wildest birth, Dotting the green slope gaily. On the thorn, Which arms the hedgerow, the young birds invite With merry minstrelsy, shrilly and maz'd With winding cadences: now quick, now sunk In the low twitter'd song. The evening sky Reddens the distant main; catching the sail, Which slowly lessens, and with crimson hue Varying the sea-green wave; while the young moon, Scarce visible amid the warmer tints Of western splendours, slowly lifts her brow Modest and icy-lustred! O'er the plain The light dews rise, sprinkling the thistle's head, And hanging its clear drops on the wild waste Of broomy fragrance. Season of delight! Thou soul-expanding pow'r, whose wondrous glow Can bid all nature smile! Ah! why to me Come unregarded, undelighting still This ever-mourning bosom? So I've seen The sweetest flow'rets bind the icy urn; The brightest sunbeams glitter on the grave; And the soft zephyr kiss the troubled main, With whispered murmurs. Yes, to me, O Spring! Thou com'st unwelcom'd by a smile of joy; To me! slow with'ring to that silent grave Where all is blank and dreary! Yet once more The Spring eternal of the soul shall dawn, Unvisited by clouds, by storms, by change, Radiant and unexhausted! Then, ye buds, Ye plumy minstrels, and ye balmy gales, Adorn your little hour, and give your joys To bless the fond world-loving traveller, Who, smiling, measures the long flow'ry path That leads to death! For to such wanderers Life is a busy, pleasing, cheerful dream, And the last hour unwelcome. Not to me, Oh! not to me, stern Death, art thou a foe; Thou art the welcome messenger, which brings A passport to a blest and long repose."

A just value was at that time set upon the exertions of Mrs. Robinson,by the conductors of the paper, who "considered them as one of theprincipal embellishments and supports of their journal."

In the spring of 1800 she was compelled by the daily encroachments ofher malady wholly to relinquish her literary employments.

Her disorder was pronounced by the physicians to be a rapid decline. Dr.Henry Vaughan, who to medical skill unites the most exaltedphilanthropy, prescribed, as a last resource, a journey to BristolWells. A desire once again to behold her native scenes induced Mrs.Robinson eagerly to accede to this proposal. She wept with melancholypleasure at the idea of closing her eyes for ever upon a world of vanityand disappointment in the place in which she had first drawn breath, andterminating her sorrows on the spot which gave her birth; but even thissad solace was denied to her, from a want of the pecuniary means forits execution. In vain she applied to those on whom honour, humanity,and justice, gave her undoubted claims. She even condescended toentreat, as a donation, the return of those sums granted as a loan inher prosperity.

The following is a copy of a letter addressed on this occasion to anoble debtor, and found among the papers of Mrs. Robinson afterher decease:

'To----

"April 23, 1800.

"MY LORD:--Pronounced by my physicians to be in a rapid decline, I trustthat your lordship will have the goodness to assist me with a part ofthe sum for which you are indebted to me. Without your aid I cannot maketrial of the Bristol waters, the only remedy that presents to me anyhope of preserving my existence. I should be sorry to die at enmity withany person; and you may be assured, my dear lord, that I bear nonetoward you. It would be useless to ask you to call on me; but if youwould do me that honour, I should be happy, very happy, to seeyou, being,

"My dear lord,

"Yours truly,

"MARY ROBINSON."

To this letter no answer was returned! Further comments are unnecessary.

The last literary performance of Mrs. Robinson was a volume of LyricalTales. She repaired a short time after to a small cottage _ornée_,belonging to her daughter, near Windsor. Rural occupation and amusement,quiet and pure air, appeared for a time to cheer her spirits andrenovate her shattered frame. Once more her active mind returned to itsaccustomed and favourite pursuits; but the toil of supplying theconstant variety required by a daily print, added to other engagements,which she almost despaired of being capacitated to fulfil pressedheavily upon her spirits, and weighed down her enfeebled frame. Yet, inthe month of August, she began and concluded, in the course of ten days,a translation of Doctor Hagar's "Picture of Palermo,"--an exertion bywhich she was greatly debilitated. She was compelled, though withreluctance, to relinquish the translation of "The Messiah" of Klopstock,which she had proposed giving to the English reader in blank verse,--atask particularly suited to her genius and the turn of her mind.

But, amidst the pressure of complicated distress, the mind of thisunfortunate woman was superior to improper concessions, and treated withjust indignation those offers of service which required the sacrifice ofher integrity.

She yet continued, though with difficulty and many intervals, herliterary avocations. When necessitated by pain and languor to limit herexertions, her unfeeling employers accused her of negligence. Thisinconsideration, though she seldom complained, affected her spirits andpreyed upon her heart. As she hourly declined toward that asylum where"the weary rest," her mind seemed to acquire strength in proportion tothe weakness of her frame. When no longer able to support the fatigue ofbeing removed from her chamber, she retained a perfect composure ofspirits, and, in the intervals of extreme bodily suffering, would listenwhile her daughter read to her, with apparent interest and collectednessof thought, frequently making observations on what would probably takeplace when she had passed that "bourn whence no traveller returns." Theflattering nature of her disorder at times inspired her friends with themost sanguine hopes of her restoration to health; she would evenherself, at intervals, cherish the idea. But these gleams of hope, likeflashes of lightning athwart the storm, were succeeded by a deepergloom, and the consciousness of her approaching fate returned upon themind of the sufferer with increased conviction.

Within a few days of her decease, she collected and arranged herpoetical works, which she bound her daughter, by a solemn adjuration, topublish for her subscribers, and also the present memoir. Requestingearnestly that the papers prepared for the latter purpose might bebrought to her, she gave them into the hands of Miss Robinson, with aninjunction that the narrative should be made public, adding, "I shouldhave continued it up to the present time--but perhaps it is as well thatI have been prevented. Promise me that you will print it!" The requestof a dying parent, so made, and at such a moment, could not be refused.She is obeyed. Upon the solemn assurances of her daughter, that her Lastdesire, so strongly urged, should be complied with, the mind of Mrs.Robinson became composed and tranquil; her intellects yet remainedunimpaired, though her corporeal strength hourly decayed.

A short time previous to her death, during an interval of her daughter'sabsence from her chamber, she called an attending friend, whosebenevolent heart and unremitting kindness will, it is hoped, meethereafter with their reward, and entreated her to observe her lastrequests, adding, with melancholy tenderness, "I cannot talk to my poorgirl on these sad subjects." Then, with an unruffled manner and minuteprecision, she gave orders respecting her interment, which she desiredmight be performed with all possible simplicity. "Let me," said she,with an impressive though almost inarticulate voice, "be buried in OldWindsor churchyard." For the selection of that spot she gave aparticular reason. She also mentioned an undertaker, whose name sherecollected having seen on his door, and whom she appointed from hisvicinity to the probable place of her decease. A few trifling memorials,as tributes of her affection, were all the property she had to bequeath.She also earnestly desired that a part of her hair might be sent to twoparticular persons.

One evening, her anxious nurses, with a view to divert her mind, talkedof some little plans to take place on her restoration to health. Sheshook her head with an affecting and significant motion. "Don't deceiveyourselves," said she; "remember, I tell you, I am but a very littletime longer for this world." Then pressing to her heart her daughter,who knelt by her bedside, she held her head for some minutes claspedagainst her bosom, which throbbed, as with some internal and agonisingconflict. "Poor heart," murmured she, in a deep and stifled tone, "whatwill become of thee!" She paused some moments, and at length, strugglingto assume more composure, desired in a calmer voice that some one wouldread to her. Throughout the remainder of the evening she continuedplacidly and even cheerfully attentive to the person who read, observingthat, should she recover, she designed to commence a long work, uponwhich she would bestow great pains and time. "Most of her writings," sheadded, "had been composed in too much haste."

Her disorder rapidly drawing toward a period, the accumulation of thewater upon her chest every moment threatened suffocation. For nearlyfifteen nights and days she was obliged to be supported upon pillows, orin the arms of her young and affectionate nurses.[53] Her decease,through this period, was hourly expected. On the 24th of December sheinquired how near was Christmas Day! Being answered, "Within a fewdays," "Yet," said she, "I shall never see it." The remainder of thismelancholy day passed in undescribable tortures. Toward midnight, thesufferer exclaimed, "O God, O just and merciful God, help me to supportthis agony!" The whole of the ensuing day she continued to endure greatanguish. In the evening a kind of lethargic stupor came on. MissRobinson, approaching the pillow of her expiring mother, earnestlyconjured her to speak, if in her power. "My darling Mary!" she faintlyarticulated, and spoke no more. In another hour she became insensible tothe grief of those by whom she was surrounded, and breathed her last ata quarter past twelve on the following noon.

The body was opened, at the express wish of Doctors Pope and Chandler.The immediate cause of her death appeared to have been a dropsy on thechest; but the sufferings which she endured previously to her deceasewere probably occasioned by six large gall-stones found in thegall-bladder.

All her requests were strictly observed. Her remains were deposited,according to her direction, in the churchyard of Old Windsor; the spotwas marked out by a friend to whom she had signified her wishes. Thefuneral was attended only by two literary friends.

Respecting the circumstances of the preceding narrative, every readermust be left to form his own reflections. To the humane mind, the errorsof the unfortunate subject of this memoir will appear to have been morethan expiated by her sufferings. Nor will the peculiar disadvantages, bywhich her introduction into life was attended, be forgotten by thecandid,--disadvantages that, by converting into a snare the bountieslavished on her by nature, proved not less fatal to her happiness thanto her conduct. On her unhappy marriage, and its still more unhappyconsequences, it is unnecessary to comment. Thus circumstanced, hergenius, her sensibility, and her beauty combined to her destruction,while, by her exposed situation, her inexperience of life, her tenderyouth, with the magnitude of the temptations which beset her, she couldscarcely fail of being betrayed.

"Say, ye severest ... ... what would you have done?"

The malady which seized her in the bloom of youth, and pursued her withunmitigable severity through every stage of life, till, in the prune ofher powers, it laid her in a premature grave, exhibits, in the historyof its progress, a series of sufferings that might disarm the sternest,soften the most rigid, and awaken pity in the hardest heart. Her mentalexertions through this depressing disease, the elasticity of her mind,and the perseverance of her efforts amidst numberless sources ofvexation and distress, cannot fail, while they awaken sympathy, toextort admiration. Had this lovely plant, now withered and low in thedust, been in its early growth transplanted into a happiersoil--sheltered from the keen blasts of adversity, and the mildew ofdetraction, it might have extended its roots, unfolded its blossoms,diffused its sweetness, shed its perfumes, and still flourished,beauteous to the eye, and grateful to the sense.

To represent the character of the individual in the circumstances oflife, his conduct under those circumstances and the consequences whichthey ultimately produce, is the peculiar province of biography. Littletherefore remains to be added. The benevolent temper, the filial pietyand the maternal tenderness of Mrs. Robinson are exemplified in thepreceding pages, as her genius, her talents, the fertility of herimagination, and the powers of her mind are displayed in herproductions, the popularity of which at least affords a presumption oftheir merit. Her manners were polished and conciliating, her powers ofconversation rich and varied. The brilliancy of her wit and the salliesof her fancy were ever tempered by kindness and chastened by delicacy.Though accustomed to the society of the great, and paying to rank thetribute which civil institutions have rendered its due, she reserved heresteem and deference for these only whose talents or whose meritsclaimed the homage of the mind.

With the unfortunate votaries of letters she sincerely sympathised, andnot unfrequently has been known to divide the profits of her genius withthe less successful or less favoured disciples of the muse.

The productions of Mrs. Robinson, both in prose and verse, are numerous,and of various degrees of merit; but to poetry the native impulse of hergenius appears to have been more peculiarly directed. Of the glitter andfalse taste exhibited in the Della Crusca correspondence[54] she becameearly sensible; several of her poems breathe a spirit of just sentimentand simple elegance.

JANE, DUCHESS OF GORDON

A PASTORAL ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF MRS. ROBINSON

BY PETER PINDAR

Farewell to the nymph of my heart! Farewell to the cottage and vine! From these, with a tear, I depart, Where pleasure so often was mine.

Remembrance shall dwell on her smile, And dwell on her lute and her song; That sweetly my hours to beguile, Oft echoed the valleys along.

Once more the fair scene let me view, The grotto, the brook, and the grove. Dear valleys, for ever adieu! Adieu to the daughter of Love!

JANE, DUTCHESS OF GORDON

"Few women," says Sir Nathaniel Wraxall, "have performed a moreconspicuous part, or occupied a higher place on the public theatre offashion, politics, and dissipation, than the Duchess of Gordon."

Jane, afterward Duchess of Gordon, the rival in beauty and talent toGeorgiana, Duchess of Devonshire, was born in Wigtonshire, in Scotland.Her father, Sir William Maxwell of Monreith (anciently Mureith),represented one of the numerous families who branched off from theoriginal stock--Herbert of Caerlaverock, first Lord Maxwell, theancestor of the famous Earl of Nithsdale, whose countess, Winifred,played so noble a part when her husband was in prison during theJacobite insurrection. From this honourable house descended, in ourtime, the gallant Sir Murray Maxwell, whose daughter, Mrs. Carew, becamethe wife of the too well-known Colonel Waugh; the events which followedare still fresh in the public mind. Until that blemish, loyalty, honour,and prosperity marked out the Maxwells of Monreith for "their own." In1681, William Maxwell was created a baronet of Nova Scotia. Variousmarriages and intermarriages with old and noble families kept the bloodpure, a circumstance as much prized by the Scotch as by the Germans. SirWilliam, the father of the Duchess of Gordon, married Magdalene, thedaughter of William Blair, of Blair, and had by her six children,--threesons and three daughters,--of whom the youngest but one was Jane, thesubject of this memoir.

This celebrated woman was a true Scotchwoman--staunch to herprinciples, proud of her birth, energetic, and determined. Her energymight have died away like a flash in the pan had it not been for herdetermination. She carried through everything that she attempted; andgreat personal charms accelerated her influence in that state of societyin which, as in the French capital, women had, at that period, anastonishing though transient degree of ascendency.

The attractions of Jane Maxwell appeared to have been developed early,for before she entered on the gay world, a song, "Jenny of Monreith,"was composed in her honour, which her son, the Duke of Gordon, used tosing, long after the charms, which were thus celebrated, had vanished.Her features were regular; the contour of her face was truly noble; herhair was dark, as well as her eyes and eyebrows; her face long andbeautifully oval; the chin somewhat too long; the upper lip was short,and the mouth, notwithstanding a certain expression of determination,sweet and well defined. Nothing can be more becoming to features of thisstamp, that require softening, than the mode of dressing the hair thengeneral. Sir Joshua Reynolds has painted the Duchess of Gordon with herdark hair drawn back, in front, over a cushion, or some support thatgave it waviness; round and round the head, between each rich mass, weretwo rows of large pearls, until, at the top, they were lost in the foldsof a ribbon; a double row of pearls round the fair neck; a ruff, openinglow in front, a tight bodice, and sleeves full to an extreme at the top,tighter toward the wrists, seem to indicate that the dress of the periodof Charles I had even been selected for this most lovely portrait. Thehead is turned aside--with great judgment--probably to mitigate thedecided expression of the face when in a front view.

As she grew up, however, the young lady was found to be deficient in oneespecial grace--she was not feminine; her person, her mind, her manners,all, in this respect, corresponded. "She might," says one who knew her,"have aptly represented Homer's Juno." Always animated, with featuresthat were constantly in play, one great charm was wanting--that ofsensibility. Sometimes her beautiful face was overclouded with anger;more frequently was it irradiated with smiles. Her conversation, too,annihilated much of the impression made by her commanding beauty. Shedespised the usages of the world, and, believing herself exempted fromthem by her rank, after she became a duchess, she dispensed with them,and sacrificed to her venal ambition some of the most lovable qualitiesof her sex. One of her speeches, when honours became, as she thought,too common at court, betrays her pride and her coarseness. "Upon myword," she used to say, "one cannot look out of one's coach windowwithout spitting on a knight." Whatever were her defects, her beautycaptivated the fancy of Alexander, the fourth Duke of Gordon, a youngman of twenty-four years of age, whom she married on the 28th ofOctober, 1767. The family she entered, as well as the family whence shesprang, were devoted adherents of the exiled Stuarts, and carried, to agreat extent, the hereditary Toryism of their exalted lineage. Thegreat-grandmother of the duke was that singular Duchess of Gordon whosent a medal to the Faculty of Advocates in Edinburgh, with the head ofJames Stuart the Chevalier on one side, and on the other the BritishIsles, with the word "Reddite" inscribed underneath. The Faculty werehighly gratified by this present. After a debate, they accepted themedal, and sent two of their body to thank the duchess, and to say thatthey hoped she would soon be enabled to favour the society with a secondmedal on the Restoration. Duke Alexander, the husband of Jane Maxwell,showed in his calm and inert character no evidence of being descendedfrom this courageous partisan. He was a man of no energy, except in hislove of country pursuits, and left the advancement of the familyinterests wholly to his spirited and ambitious wife. They were marriedonly six years after George III had succeeded to the throne. Never was acourt more destitute of amusements than that of the then youthfulsovereign of England. Until his latter days, George II. had enjoyedrevelries, though of a slow, formal, German character; but his grandsonconfined himself, from the age of twenty-two, to his public and privateduties. He neither frequented masquerades nor joined in play. Thesplendours of a court were reserved for birthdays, and for those alone;neither did the king usually sit down to table with the nobility or withhis courtiers. Never was he known to be guilty of the slightest excessat table, and his repasts were simple, if not frugal. At a levee, or onthe terrace at Windsor, or in the circle of Hyde Park, this model of aworthy English gentleman might be seen, either with his plain-featuredqueen on his arm, or driven in his well-known coach with his old andfamous cream-coloured horses. Junius derided the court, "where," hesaid, "prayers are morality and kneeling is religion." But althoughwanting in animation, it was far less reprehensible than that whichpreceded or that which followed it. The Duchess of Gordon,irreproachable in conduct, with her high Tory principles, was wellsuited to a court over which Lord Bute exercised a strong influence. Shehad naturally a calculating turn of mind. Fame, admiration, fashion,were agreeable trifles, but wealth and rank were the solid aims to whichevery effort was directed. Unlike her future rival, the Duchess ofDevonshire, who impoverished herself in her boundless charities, theDuchess of Gordon kept in view the main chance, and resolved from herearly youth to aggrandise the family into which she had entered.

Her empire as a wit was undisputed, for the Duchess of Devonshire wasthen a mere girl, at her mother's knee; but that for beauty was disputedby Mary, Duchess of Rutland, so well remembered in our own time, as shesurvived till 1831.

This exquisite specimen of English loveliness, compared by some toMusidora, as described by Thomson, was the most beautiful woman of rankin the kingdom. Every turn of her features, every form of her limbs, wasperfect, and grace accompanied every movement. She was tall, of the justheight; slender, but not thin; her features were delicate and noble; andher ancestors, the Plantagenets, were in her represented by a faultlesssample of personal attributes. She was the daughter of a race which hasgiven to the world many heroes, one philosopher, and several celebratedbeauties--that of Somerset; and, as the descendant of the defenders ofRaglan Castle, might be expected to combine various noble qualities withpersonal gifts. But she was cold, although a coquette. In the Duchess ofDevonshire it was the _besoin d'aimer_, the cordial nature recoiled intoitself from being linked to an expletive, that betrayed her into anencouragement of what offered her the semblance of affection--into thetemptation of being beloved. To the Duchess of Gordon her conquests wereenhanced by the remembrance of what they might bring; but the Duchess ofRutland viewed her admirers in the light of offering tributes to agoddess. She was destitute of the smiles, the intelligence, andsweetness of the Duchess of Devonshire; and conscious of charms,received adoration as her due. "In truth," Sir Nathanial Wraxall, whoknew her well, writes, "I never contemplated her except as an enchantingstatue, formed to excite admiration rather than to awaken love, thissuperb production of nature not being lighted up by corresponding mentalattractions."

This lady was united to one of the most attractive and popular of men,but one of the most imprudent and convivial. The son of that celebratedMarquis of Granby whom Junius attacked, the young Duke of Rutland was afirm partisan of Pitt, whom he first brought into the House of Commons,and at whose wish he accepted the government of Ireland in 1784. Neverwas there such splendour at the vice-regal court as in his time. Vesselsladen with the expensive luxuries from England were seen in the Bay ofDublin at short intervals; the banquets given were most costly; theevenings at the castle were divided between play and drinking; and yetthe mornings found the young duke breakfasting on six or seven turkey'seggs. He then, when on his progress, rode forty or fifty miles, returnedto dinner at seven, and sat up to a late hour, supping before heretired to rest.

The duchess had little place in his heart, and the siren, Mrs.Billington, held it in temporary thraldom; but constancy was to a man ofsuch a calibre impossible. Nevertheless, when the duke saw his wifesurrounded by admirers, whom her levity of manner encouraged, he becamejealous, and they parted, for the last time as it proved, on bad terms.One evening, seeing him engaged in play, the duchess approached thewindow of the room in which he sat, and tapped at it. He was highlyincensed by this interference with his amusements. She returned toEngland, an invalid, in order to consult Doctor Warren, the father ofthe late physician of that name. Whilst residing with her mother inBerkeley Square, she heard that the duke was attacked with fever. Shesent off Doctor Warren to see him, and was preparing to follow him whenthe physician returned. At Holyhead he had heard that the duke was nomore. He died at the early age of thirty-three, his blood having beeninflamed by his intemperance, which, however, never affected his reason,and was, therefore, the more destructive to his health. His widow, inspite of their alienation, mourned long and deeply. Never did she appearmore beautiful than when, in 1788, she reappeared after her seclusion.Like Diana of Poictiers, she retained her wonderful loveliness to anadvanced age. Latterly, she covered her wrinkles with enamel, and whenshe appeared in public always quitted a room in which the windows, whichmight admit the dampness, were opened. She never married again,notwithstanding the various suitors who desired to obtain her hand.

For a long time the Duchess of Gordon continued to reign over the Toryparty almost without a rival. When, at last, the Duchess of Devonshirecame forward as the female champion of the Foxites, Pitt and Dundas,afterward Lord Melville, opposed to her the Duchess of Gordon. At thattime she lived in the splendid mansion of the then Marquis of Buckinghamin Pall Mall. Every evening, numerous assemblies of persons attached tothe administration gathered in those stately saloons, built upon or nearthe terrace whereon Nell Gwyn used to chat with Charles II on the grassbelow, as he was going to feed his birds in his gardens. Presuming onher rank, her influence, her beauty, the Duchess of Gordon used to actin the most determined manner as a government whipper-in. When a memberon whom she counted was wanting, she did not scruple to send for him, toremonstrate, to persuade, to fix him by a thousand arts. Strange musthave been the scene--more strange than attractive. Everything wasforgotten but the one grand object of the evening, the theme of alltalk,--the next debate and its supporters. In the year 1780 events tookplace which for some time appeared likely to shake the prosperity of theGordon family almost to its fall.

The duke had two brothers, the elder of whom, Lord William, was theRanger of Windsor Park, and survived to a great age. The younger, LordGeorge, holds a very conspicuous but not a very creditable place in theannals of his country. No event in our history bears any analogy withthat styled the "Gordon Riots," excepting the fire of London in thereign of Charles II; and even that calamity did not exhibit the mournfulspectacle which attended the conflagrations of 1780. In the formerinstance, the miserable sufferers had to contend only with a devouringelement; in the latter, they had to seek protection, and to seek it invain, from a populace of the lowest description, and the vilestpurposes, who carried with them destruction wherever they went. Evenduring the French Revolution, revolting and degrading as it was, thefirebrand was not employed in the work of destruction; the public andprivate buildings of Paris were spared.

The author of all these calamities, Lord George Gordon, was a young manof gentle, agreeable manners, and delicate, high-bred appearance. Hisfeatures were regular and pleasing; he was thin and pale, but with acunning, sinister expression in his face that indicatedwrong-headedness. He was dependent on his elder brother, the duke, forhis maintenance, six hundred pounds a year being allowed him by hisGrace. Such was the exterior, such the circumstances of an incendiarywho has been classed with Wat Tyler and Jack Cade, or with Kett, thedelinquent in the time of Edward VI.

It was during the administration of Lord North that the Cordon Riotstook place, excited by the harangues and speeches of Lord George. On the2d of June he harangued the people; on the 7th these memorabledisturbances broke out; Bloomsbury Square was the first point of attack.In Pope's time this now neglected square was fashionable:

Baxter, the Nonconformist, and Sir Hans Sloane once inhabited what was,in their time, called Southampton Square, from Southampton House, whichoccupied one whole side of Bloomsbury Square, and was long the abode ofLady Rachel Russell, after the execution of her lord. Like every otherpart of what may be called "Old London," it is almost sanctified by thememories of the lettered and the unfortunate. But the glory ofBloomsbury Square was, in those days, the house of Lord Mansfield, atthe north end of the east side; in which that judge had collected manyvaluables, among which his library was the dearest to his heart; it wasthe finest legal library of his time. As soon as the long summer's dayhad closed, and darkness permitted the acts of violence to be fullyrecognised, Hart Street and Great Russell Street were illuminated bylarge fires, composed of the furniture taken from the houses of certainmagistrates. Walking into Bloomsbury, the astounded observer of thatnight's horrors saw, with consternation, the hall door of LordMansfield's house broken open; and instantly all the contents of thevarious apartments were thrown into the square, and set on fire. In vaindid a small body of foot-soldiers attempt to intimidate the rioters. Thewhole of the house was consumed, and vengeance would have fallen on LordMansfield and his lady had they not escaped by a back door a few minutesbefore the hall was broken into; such was that memorable act ofdestruction--so prompt, so complete. Let us follow the mob, in fancy,and leaving the burning pile in Bloomsbury Square, track the steps ofthe crowd into Holborn. We remember, as we are hurried along, with abitter feeling, that Holborn was the appointed road for criminals fromNewgate to Tyburn. It is now one blaze of light; in the hollow nearFleet Market, the house and warehouses of Mr. Langdale, a Catholic--aChristian like ourselves, though not one of our own blessed and reformedchurch--is blazing; a pinnacle of flame, like a volcano, is sent up intothe air. St. Andrew's Church is almost scorched with the heat; whilstthe figures of the clock--that annalist which numbers, as it stands, thehours of guilt--are plain as at noonday. The gutters beneath, catchinghere and there gleams of the fiery heavens, run with spirituous liquorsfrom the plundered distilleries; the night is calm, as if no deeds ofpersecution sullied its beauty; at times it is obscured by volumes ofsmoke, but they pass away, and the appalled spectators of the streetbelow are plainly visible. Here stands a mother with an infant in herarms looking on; there, a father, leading his boy to the safest point ofobservation. We wonder at their boldness; but it is the direst sign ofaffright--in their homes they are insecure--everywhere, anywhere, theruthless unseen hand may cast the brand, and all may perish. At thisearly hour there seemed to be no ringleader--no pillage; it appeareddifficult to conceive who could be the wretch who instigated, whodirected this awful riot; but, at the windows, men were seen calmlytearing away pictures from the walls; furniture, books, plate, fromtheir places, and throwing them into the flames. As midnight drew near,the ferocious passions of the multitude were heightened by ardentspirits; not a soldier, either horse or foot, is visible. "Whilst westood," says an eye-witness, "by the wall of St. Andrew's churchyard, awatchman, with his lanthorn in his hand, passed on, calling the hour asif in a time of profound security."

Meantime, the King's Bench Prison was enveloped in flames; the MansionHouse and the Bank were attacked. But the troops were killing anddispersing the rioters on Blackfriars Bridge; a desperate conflictbetween the horse and the mob was going on near the Bank. What a night!The whole city seemed to be abandoned to pillage--to destruction.Shouts, yells, the shrieks of women, the crackling of the burninghouses, the firing of platoons toward St. George's Fields, combined toshow that no horrors, no foes are equal to those of domestic treachery,domestic persecution, domestic fury, and infatuation.

It was not alone the Roman Catholics who were threatened. Sir GeorgeSavile's house in Leicester Square--once the peaceful locality in whichDorothy Sydney, Waller's "Sacharissa," bloomed--was plundered andburned. Then the Duchess of Devonshire took fright, and did not ventureto stay at Devonshire House for many nights after dusk, but took refugeat Lord Clermont's in Berkeley Square, sleeping on a sofa in thedrawing-room. In Downing Street, Lord North was dining with a party hisbrother, Colonel North, Mr. Eden, afterward Lord Auckland, theHonourable John St. John, General Fraser, and Count Malzen, the Prussianminister. The little square then surrounding Downing Street was filledwith the mob. "Who commands the upper story?" said Lord North. "I do,"answered Colonel North; "and I have twenty or thirty grenadiers wellarmed, who are ready to fire on the first notice."

"If your grenadiers fire," said Mr. Eden, calmly, "they will probablyfire into my house just opposite."

The mob was now threatening; every moment the peril was increasing. Mr.St. John held a pistol in his hand; and Lord North, who never couldforbear cutting a joke, said, "I am not half so much afraid of the mobas of Jack St. John's pistol." By degrees, however, the crowd, seeingthat the house was well guarded, dispersed, and the gentlemen quietlysat down again to their wine until late in the evening, when they allascended to the top of the house, and beheld the capital blazing. It washere that the first suggestion of a coalition between Lord North andFox, to save the country and themselves, was started, and afterwardperfected behind the scenes of the Opera House in the Haymarket. Duringthis memorable night George III, behaved with the courage which,whatever their failings, has ever highly distinguished the Hanoverianfamily. By the vigorous measures, late indeed, but not too late, whichhe acceded to at the Council, London was saved. But the popular fury hadextended to other towns. Bath was in tumult; a new Roman Catholic chapelthere was burned. Mrs. Thrale, hearing that her house at Streatham hadbeen threatened, caused it to be emptied of its furniture. Three timeswas Mrs. Thrale's town house attacked; her valuables and furniture wereremoved thence also; and she deemed it prudent to leave Bath, into whichcoaches, chalked over with "No Popery," were hourly driving. Thecomposure with which the rioters did their work seemed to render thescene more fearful, as they performed these acts of violence as if theywere carrying out a religious duty rather than deeds ofexecrable hatred.

It was not until two or three days after tranquillity had been restoredthat Lord George Gordon was apprehended. Ministers were justlyreproached for not having sent him to the Tower on the 2d of June, whenhe had assembled and excited the mob to extort compliance with theirwishes from the House of Commons. Such a step, when the House wassurrounded by multitudes, and when, every moment, it was expected thatthe door would be broken open, would have been hazardous; had thatoccurred, Lord George would have suffered instant death. General Murray,afterward Duke of Atholl, held his sword ready to pass it through LordGeorge's body the instant the mob rushed in. The Earl of Carnarvon, thegrandfather of the present earl, followed him closely with thesame intent.

The indignation of the insulted Commons was extreme, and the distressand displeasure of Lord George's own family doubtless excessive. TheHouse of Commons had never been thus insulted before. It is difficult todetermine what could be Lord George's motives for the conduct which ledto these awful results, during the whole of which he preserved acomposure that bordered on insensibility; he was a perfect master ofhimself whilst the city was in flames. Much may be laid to fanaticism,and the mental derangement which it either produced or evinced. When toolate he tried in vain to abate the fury he had excited, and offered totake his stand by Lord Rodney's[55] side when the Bank was attacked, toaid that officer, who commanded the Guards, in its defence.

Lord George then lived in Weibeck Street, Cavendish Square, andtradition assigns as his house that now occupied by Mr. Newby, thepublisher, No. 30, and for many years the house of Count Woronzoff, theRussian ambassador, who died there. Lord George there prepared for hisdefence, which was entrusted to the great Erskine, then in his prime,or, as he was called in caricatures, with which the shops were full,from his extreme vanity, _Counsellor Ego_. In February, 1781, the trialtook place, and Lord George was acquitted. He retired to Birmingham,became a Jew, and lived in that faith, or under the delusion that he didso. The hundreds who perished from his folly or insanity were avenged inhis subsequent imprisonment in Newgate for a libel on Marie Antoinette,of which he was convicted. He died a very few years after the riots of1780, in Newgate, generally condemned, and but little compassionated.

It appears from the letters addressed by Doctor Beanie to the Duchess ofGordon, that she was not in London during the riots of June, 1780. Thepoet had been introduced to her by Sir William Forbes, and frequentlyvisited Gordon Castle. We find him, whilst London was blazing, sendingthither a parcel of _Mirrors_, the fashionable journal, "Count Fathom,""The Tale of a Tub," and the fanciful, forgotten romance by BishopBerkeley, "Gaudentio di Lucca," to amuse her solitude. "'Gaudentio,'" hewrites, "will amuse you, though there are tedious passages in it. Thewhole description of passing the deserts of Africa is particularlyexcellent." It is singular that this dream of Bishop Berkeley's of acountry fertile and delicious in the centre of Africa should have beenalmost realised in our own time by the discoveries of DoctorLivingstone.

To his present of books, Doctor Beattie added a flask of whisky, whichhe sealed with his usual seal, "The three graces, whom I take to be yourGrace's near relations, as they have the honour, not only to bear one ofyour titles, but also to resemble you exceedingly in form, feature, andmanner. If you had lived three thousand years ago, which I am very gladyou did not, there would have been four of them, and you the first. Mayall happiness attend your Grace!"

This graceful piece of adulation was followed by a tender concern for"her Grace's" health. A sportive benediction was offered whilst theduchess was at Glenfiddick, a hunting seat in the heart of the GrampianHills--a wild, sequestered spot, of which Doctor Beattie wasparticularly fond.

"I rejoice in the good weather, in the belief that it extends toGlenfiddick, where I pray that your Grace may enjoy all the health andhappiness that good air, goats' whey, romantic solitude, and the societyof the loveliest children in the world can bestow. May your days beclear sunshine; and may a gentle rain give balm to your nights, that theflowers and birch-trees may salute you in the morning with all theirfragrance! May the kids frisk and play tricks before you with unusualsprightliness; and may the song of birds, the hum of bees, and thedistant waterfall, with now and then the shepherd's horn resounding fromthe mountains, entertain you with a full chorus of Highland music! Myimagination had parcelled out the lovely little glen into a thousandlittle paradises; in the hope of being there, and seeing everyday inthat solitude, what is

'Fairer than famed of old, or fabled since, Of fairy damsels, met in forests wide By errant knights.'

But the information you received at Cluny gave a check to my fancy, andwas indeed a great disappointment to Mrs. Beattie and me; not on accountof the goats' whey, but because it keeps us so long at such a distancefrom your Grace."

When at Gordon Castle, the duchess occupied herself with pursuits thatelevated whilst they refreshed her mind. She promised Doctor Beattie tosend him the history of a day. Her day seems to have been partly engagedin the instruction of her five daughters, and in an activecorrespondence and reading. It is difficult to imagine this busy,flattered woman reading Blair's sermons--which had then been recentlypublished--to her family on Sundays; or the duke, whom Doctor Beattiedescribes as "more astronomical than ever," engrossed from morning tonight in making calculations with Mr. Copland, Professor of Astronomy inMarischal College, Aberdeen. Beattie's letters to the duchess, althoughtoo adulatory, were those of a man who respects the understanding of thewoman to whom he writes. The following anecdotes, the one relating toHume, the other to Handel, are in his letters to the Duchess of Gordon,and they cannot be read without interest.

"Mr. Hume was boasting to the doctor (Gregory) that among his discipleshe had the honour to reckon many of the fair sex. 'Now tell me,' saidthe doctor, 'whether, if you had a wife or a daughter, you would wishthem to be your disciples? Think well before you answer me; for I assureyou that whatever your answer is, I will not conceal it.' Mr. Hume, witha smile and some hesitation, made this reply: 'No; I believe skepticismmay be too sturdy a virtue for a woman.' Miss Gregory will certainlyremember she has heard her father tell this story."

Again, about Handel:

"I lately heard two anecdotes, which deserve to be put in writing, andwhich you will be glad to hear. When Handel's 'Messiah' was firstperformed, the audience were exceedingly struck and affected by themusic in general; but when the chorus struck up, 'For the Lord GodOmnipotent reigneth,' they were so transported that they all, togetherwith the king (who happened to be present), started up, and remainedstanding till the chorus ended; and hence it became the fashion inEngland for the audience to stand while that part of the music isperforming. Some days after the first exhibition of the same divineoratorio, Mr. Handel came to pay his respects to Lord Kinnoul, with whomhe was particularly acquainted. His lordship, as was natural, paid himsome compliments on the noble entertainment which he had lately giventhe town. 'My lord,' said Handel, 'I should be sorry if I onlyentertained them--I wish to make them better.'"

Beattie's happiest hours are said to have been passed at Gordon Castle,with those whose tastes, in some respects differing from his own, hecontributed to form; whilst he was charmed with the beauty, the wit, thecultivated intellect of the duchess, and he justly appreciated hertalents and virtues. Throughout a friendship of years her kindnesswas unvaried;

"Ne'er ruffled by those cataracts and breaks Which humour interposed too often makes."

The duchess felt sincerely for poor Beattie's domestic sorrows; for thepeculiarities of his wife, whom he designated as "nervous;" for theearly death of his son, in whom all the poet's affections were bound up,and to whose welfare every thought of his was directed.

One would gladly take one's impressions of the Duchess of Gordon'scharacter from Beattie, rather than from the pen of political writers,who knew her but as a partisan. The duchess, according to Beattie, wasfeelingly alive to every fine impulse; demonstrative herself, detestingcoldness in others; the life of every party; the consoling friend ofevery scene of sorrow; a compound of sensibility and vivacity, ofstrength and softness. This is not the view that the world took of hercharacter. Beattie always quitted Gordon Castle "with sighs and tears."It is much to have added to the transient gleams of happiness enjoyed byso good and so afflicted a man. "I cannot think," he wrote, when underthe pressure of dreaded calamity--that of seeing his wife insane; "I amtoo much agitated and _distrait_ (as Lord Chesterfield would say) toread anything that is not very desultory; I cannot play at cards; Icould never learn to smoke; and my musical days are over. My firstexcursion, if ever I make any, must be to Gordon Castle."

There he found what is indispensable to such a man--congeniality.Amusement was not what he required; it was soothing. It was in theduchess's presence that he wrote the following "Lines to a Pen:" "Go, and be guided by the brightest eyes, And to the softest hand thine aid impart; To trace the fair ideas as they arise, Warm from the purest, gentlest, noblest heart;"lines in which the praise is worth more than the poetry. The duchesssent him a copy by Smith of her portrait by Sir Joshua Reynolds, apicture to which reference has been already made.

In 1782 the duchess grieved for the death of Lord Kaimes, for whom shehad a sincere friendship, although the religious opinions of thatcelebrated man differed greatly from those of Beattie. Lord Kaimes wasfifty-six years an author, in company with the eccentric Lord Monboddo,the author of the theory that men have had tails. Lord Kaimes passedsome days at Gordon Castle shortly before his death. Monboddo and hedetested each other, and squabbled incessantly. Lord Kaimes understoodno Greek; and Monboddo, who was as mad and as tiresome about Greek andAristotle, and as absurd and peculiar on that score as Don Quixote wasabout chivalry, told him that without understanding Greek he could notwrite a page of good English. Their arguments must have been highlydiverting. Lord Kaimes, on his death-bed, left a remembrance to theDuchess of Gordon, who had justly appreciated him, and defended him fromthe charge of skepticism. Lord Monboddo compared the duchess to Helen ofTroy, whom he asserted to have been seven feet high; but whether instature, in beauty, or in the circumstances of her life, doesnot appear.

The happiness of the duchess was perfected by the blessings granted toher in her family. In 1770 the birth of her eldest son George, longbeloved in Scotland whilst the Marquis of Huntley, took place. DoctorBeattie describes him as "the best and most beautiful boy that ever wasborn." He proved to be one of the most popular of the young nobility ofthat period. Doctor Beattie strongly advised the duchess to engage anEnglish tutor, a clergyman, for him, recommended either by theArchbishop of York, or by the Provost of Eton. When it afterward becamea question whether the young heir should go to Oxford or to Cambridge,the doctor, who seems to have been a universal authority, allowed thatCambridge was the best for a man of study, whilst Oxford had more dashand spirit in it: so little are matters altered since that time.

Fifteen years appear to have elapsed before the birth of a second son,Alexander. Both these scions of this ducal house became military men:the young marquis was colonel of the Scots Fusileer Guards, and servedin the Peninsular war, and was eventually Governor of Edinburgh Castle.Long was he remembered by many a brother officer, many an old soldier,as a gallant, courteous, gay-hearted man; with some of the faults andall the virtues of the military character. He married late in lifeElizabeth, daughter of Alexander Brodie, Esq., of Arnhall, N. B., whosurvived him. Lord Alexander Cordon died unmarried; but five daughtersadded to the family lustre by noble and wealthy alliances.

Wraxall remarks "that the conjugal duties of the Duchess of Gordonpressed on her heart with less force than did her maternal solicitudes."For their elevation she thought, indeed, no sacrifice too great, and noefforts too laborious. In the success of her matrimonial speculationsshe has been compared to Sarah, Duchess of Marlborough, who numberedamong her sons-in-law two dukes and three earls. But the daughters ofthe proud Sarah were, it has been observed, the children of JohnChurchill, and on them were settled, successively, Blenheim and thedukedom. The Ladies Gordon were portionless, and far less beautiful thantheir mother. To her skilful diplomacy alone were these brilliantfortunes owing.

Lady Charlotte, the eldest, was eighteen years of age when her motherfirst entertained matrimonial projects for her, and chose for theirobject no less a personage than Pitt, then prime minister. Her schemesmight have proved successful had not Pitt had that sure impediment tomaternal management,--a friend. This friend was the subtle Henry Dundas,afterward Lord Melville; one of those men who, under the semblance ofunguarded manners and a free, open bearing, conceal the deepest designsof personal aggrandisement. Governing India, governing Scotland, thevicegerent in Edinburgh for places and pensions, Dundas was lookingforward to a peerage, and kept his eye steadily on Pitt, whom he guidedin many matters, adapting his conduct and his conversation to thepeculiar tone of the minister's mind. Flattery he never used--dictationhe carefully avoided; both would have been detrimental to his influencewith the reserved statesman.

Pitt was by no means calculated to win the affection of a blooming girlof eighteen, who, whatever Wraxall may have thought, lived to be one ofthe most beautiful and graceful women of her time. Many years ago,during the life of Sir Thomas Lawrence, his portrait of the Duchess ofRichmond, formerly Lady Charlotte Cordon, was exhibited at SomersetHouse. So exquisite were the feminine charms of that lovely face, soelegant the form he had portrayed, that all crowded to look upon thatdelineation of a woman no longer young; whilst beauties in the bloom ofyouth were passed by as they hung on the walls in all the glowingcolours of girlhood.

On most intimate terms with the duchess, Pitt seems to have been touchedwith the attractions of Lady Charlotte, and to have paid her someattentions. He was one of the stiffest and shyest of men, finely formedin figure, but plain in face; the last man to be fascinated, the last tofascinate. Drives to Dundas's house at Wimbledon when Pitt was there;evenings at home, in easy converse with these two politicians; suppers,at which the premier always finished his bottle, as well as the hardierScotchman, failed to bring forward the reserved William Pitt. The factwas, that Dundas could not permit any one, far less the Duchess ofGordon, to have the ascendency over the prime minister that so near arelationship would occasion. He trembled for his own influence. Awidower at that time,--his wife, a Miss Rennie of Melville, who had beendivorced from him, being dead,--he affected to lay his own person andfortune at Lady Charlotte's feet. Pitt instantly retired, and thesacrifice cost him little; and Dundas's object being answered, hispretensions also dropped through. Two years afterward, Lady Charlottebecame the wife of Colonel Lennox, afterward Duke of Richmond, and inthe course of years the mother of fourteen children; one of whom, HenryAdam, a midshipman, fell overboard from the _Blake_ in 1812, and wasdrowned. According to Wraxall, the Duke of Richmond had to pay thepenalty of what he calls "this imprudent, if not unfortunate marriage,"being banished to the snowy banks of St. Lawrence under the nameof governor.

In modern times, our young nobility of promise have learned theimportant truth, ably enforced by Thomas Carlyle, that work is not onlyman's appointed lot, but his highest blessing and safeguard. The risingmembers of various noble families have laid this axiom to heart; and,when not engaged in public business, have come grandly forward toprotect the unhappy, to provide for the young, to solace the old. Thename of Shaftesbury carries with it gratitude and comfort in its sound;whilst that of him who figured of old in the cabal, the Shaftesbury ofCharles II's time, is, indeed, not forgotten, but remembered withdetestation. Ragged schools; provident schools; asylums for the agedgoverness; homes in which the consumptive may lay their heads in peaceand die; asylums for the penitent; asylums for the idiot; homes wherethe houseless may repose,--these are the monuments to our Shaftesbury,to our younger sons. The mere political ascendency--the garter or thecoronet--are distinctions which pale before these, as does the moon whendawn has touched the mountains' tops with floods of light. As lecturersamid their own people, as the best friends and counsellors of theindigent, as man bound to man by community of interests, our noblemen inmany instances stand before us--Catholic and Protestant zealous alike.

"Jock of Norfolk" is represented by a descendant of noble impulses.Elgin, Carlisle, Stanley--the Bruce, the Howard, the Stanley of formerdays--are our true heroes of society, men of great aims andgreat powers.

The Duchess of Gordon was indefatigable in her ambition, but she couldnot always entangle dukes. Her second daughter, Madelina, was marriedfirst to Sir Robert Sinclair; and secondly, to Charles Fyshe Palmer,Esq., of Luckley Hall, Berkshire. Lady Madelina was not handsome, butextremely agreeable, animated, and intellectual. Among her otherconquests was the famous Samuel Parr, of Hatton, who used to delight insounding her praises, and recording her perfections with much of thateloquence which is now fast dying out of remembrance, but which was athing _à part_ in that celebrated Grecian. Susan, the third daughter ofthe duke and duchess, married William, Duke of Manchester, thus becomingconnected with a descendant of John, Duke of Marlborough.

Louisa, the fourth daughter, married Charles, second Marquis Cornwallis,and son of the justly celebrated Governor of India; and Georgiana, thefifth and youngest, became the wife of John, the late Duke of Bedford.

Such alliances might have satisfied the ambition of most mothers; butfor her youngest and most beautiful daughter, the Duchess of Bedford,the Duchess of Cordon had even entertained what she thought higherviews. In 1802, whilst Buonaparte was first consul, and anticipating animperial crown, the Duchess of Gordon visited Paris, and received theresuch distinctions from Napoleon Bonaparte, then first consul, as excitedhopes in her mind of an alliance with that man whom, but a few yearspreviously, she would probably have termed an adventurer!

Paris was then, during the short peace, engrossed with fêtes, reviews,and dramatic amusements, the account of which makes one almost fancyoneself in the year 1852, that of the _coup d'état_, instead of theperiod of 1802. The whirlwinds of revolution seemed then, as now, tohave left all unchanged; the character of the people, who were stilldevoted to pleasure, and sanguine, was, on the surface, gay and buoyantas ever. Buonaparte holding his levées at the Tuileries, with all thesplendour of majesty, reminds one of his nephew performing similarceremonies at the Élysée, previously to his assuming the purple. Allrepublican simplicity was abandoned, and the richest taste displayed onpublic occasions in both eras.

Let us picture to ourselves the old, quaint palace of the Tuileries on areception day then; and the impression made on the senses will serve forthe modern drama; be it comedy, or be it tragedy, which is to be playedout in those stately rooms wherein so many actors have passed andrepassed to their doom.

It is noon, and the first consul is receiving a host of ambassadorswithin the consular apartment, answering probably to the "_Salle desMaréchaux_" of Napoleon III. Therein the envoys from every Europeanstate are attempting to comprehend, what none could ever fathom, theconsul's mind. Let us not intermeddle with their conference, but lookaround us, and view the gallery in which we are waiting until he, whowas yesterday so small, and who is to-day so great, should come forthamongst us.

How gorgeous is the old gallery, with its many windows, its rich roof,and gilded panels! The footmen of the first consul, in splendidliveries, are bringing chairs for the ladies who are awaiting theapproach of that schoolmaster's son; they are waiting until the weightyconference within is terminated. Peace-officers, superbly bedizened, arewalking up and down to keep ladies to their seats and gentlemen to theranks, so as to form a passage for the first consul to pass down. Pagesof the back stairs, dressed in black, and with gold chains hangingaround their necks, are standing by the door to guard it, or to open itwhen he on whom all thoughts are fixed should come forth.

But what is beyond everything striking is the array of Buonaparte'saids-de-camp,--fine fellows, war-worn,--men such as he, and he alone,would choose; and so gorgeous, so radiant are their uniforms, that allelse seem as if in shadow in comparison.

The gardens of the Tuileries meantime are filling with troops whom thefirst consul is going to review. There are now Zouaves there; but theseare men whom the suns of the tropics hate embrowned; little fellows,many of them, of all heights, such as we might make drummers of in ourstalwart ranks; but see how muscular, active, full of fire they are;fierce as hawks, relentless as tigers. See the horse-soldiers on theirscraggy steeds; watch their evolutions, and you will own, with a youngguardsman who stood gazing, fifty years afterward, on the troops whichfollowed Napoleon III into Paris, that "they are worth looking at."

The long hour is past; the pages in black are evidently on the watch;the double door which leads into the _Salle des Maréchaux_ is openedfrom within; a stricter line is instantly kept by the officers in thegallery. Fair faces, many an English one among them, are flushed. Anonhe appears, whilst an officer at the door, with one hand raised abovehis head and the other extended, exclaims, "_Le Premier Consul_."

Forth he walks, a firm, short, stolid form, with falling shouldersbeneath his tight, deep-blue frock. His tread is heavy rather thanmajestic,--that of a man who has a purpose in walking, not merely toshow himself as a parade. His head is large, and formed with aperfection which we call classic; his features are noble, modelled bythat hand of Nature which framed this man "fearfully," indeed, and"wonderfully." Nothing was ever finer than his mouth--nothing moredisappointing than his eye; it is heavy, almost mournful. His face ispale, almost sallow, while--let one speak who beheld him--"not only inthe eye, but in every feature, care, thought, melancholy, and meditationare strongly marked, with so much of character, nay, genius, and sopenetrating a seriousness, or rather sadness, as powerfully to sink intoan observer's mind."

It is the countenance of a student, not of a warrior; of one deep inunpractical meditation, not of one whose every act and plan had thenbeen but a tissue of successes. It is the face of a man wedded to deepthought, not of the hero of the battle-field, the ruler of assemblies;and, as if to perfect the contrast, whilst all around is gorgeous andblazing, he passes along without a single decoration on his plain dress,not even a star to mark out the first consul. It is well; there can butbe one Napoleon in the world, and he wants no distinction.

He is followed by diplomatists of every European power, vassals, all,more or less, save England; and to England, and to her sons anddaughters, are the most cherished courtesies directed. Does not thatrecall the present policy?

By his side walks a handsome youth whom he has just been presenting tothe Bavarian minister,--that envoy from a strange, wild country, littleknown save by the dogged valour of its mountaineers. The ruler of thatland, until now an elector, has been saluted king by Napoleonthe powerful.

On the youth, who addresses him as _mon pèr_, a slight glance is allowedeven from those downcast eyes which none may ever look into too full.Eugène Beauharnais, his stepson, the son of his ever-loved Josephine,has a place in that remorseless heart. "All are not evil." Is it someinkling of the parental love, is it ambition, that causes the firstconsul to be always accompanied by that handsome youth, fascinating ashis mother, libertine as his stepfather, but destitute at once of thesensibilities of the former and of the powerful intelligence ofthe latter?

It is on him--on Eugène Beauharnais--that the hopes of the proud Duchessof Gordon rest. Happily for her whom she would willingly have given tohim as a bride, her scheme was frustrated. Such a sacrifice wasincomplete.

Look now from the windows of that gallery; let your gaze rest on theparade below, in the Rue de Rivoli, through which Buonaparte is ridingat the head of his staff to the review. He has mounted a beautiful whitehorse; his aids-de-camp are by his side, followed by his generals. Herides on so carelessly that an ordinary judge would call him anindifferent equestrian. He holds his bridle first in one hand, then inanother, yet he has the animal in perfect control; he can master it by asingle movement. As he presents some swords of honour, the whole bearingand aspect of the man change. He is no longer the melancholy student;stretching out his arm, the severe, scholastic mien assumes instantly amilitary and commanding air.

Then the consular band strike up a march, and the troops follow in grandsuccession toward the Champs Élysées. The crowds within the gallerydisappear; I look around me: the hedges of human beings who had beenstanding back to let the hero pass, are broken, and all are hurryingaway. The pages are lounging; the aids-de-camp are gone; already issilence creeping over that vast gallery of old historic remembrances. Donot our hearts sink? Here, in this centre window, Marie Antoinetteshowed her little son to the infuriated mob below. She stood beforeunpitying eyes. Happier had it been for him, for her, had they diedthen. Will those scenes, we thought, ever recur? They have--they have!mercifully mitigated, it is true; yet ruthless hands have torn fromthose walls their rich hangings. By yon door did the son of Égalitéescape. Twice has that venerable pile been desecrated. Even in 152, whencrowds hastened to the first ball given by Napoleon III., he traces ofthe last revolution were pointed out to the dancers. They have darkenedthe floors; all is, it is true, not only renovated, but embellished, soas to constitute the most gorgeous of modern palaces; yet for how long?

It is, indeed, in mercy that many of our wishes are denied us. EugèneBeauharnais was even then, destined to a bride whom he had never seen,the eldest daughter of that Elector of Bavaria to whom Buonaparte hadgiven royalty; and the sister of Ludwig, the ex-King of Bavaria, was thedestined fair one. They were married; and she, at all events, was fond,faithful, nay, even devoted. He was created Duke of Leuchtenberg, andMarie of Leuchtenberg was beautiful, majestic, pious, graceful; but shecould not keep his heart. So fair was she, with those sweet blue eyes,that pearl-like skin, that fine form, made to show off the _parures_ ofjewels which poor Josephine bequeathed to her--so fair was she, thatwhen Buonaparte saw her before her bridal, he uttered these few words,"Had I known, I would have married her myself." Still she was butsecond, perhaps third, perhaps fourth ('tis a way they have in France)in his affections; nevertheless, when he died,--and it was in his youth,and Thorwaldsen has executed a noble monument of him in the Dom Kircheat Munich,--when that last separation came, preceded by many a one thathad been voluntary on his part, his widow mourned, and no second bridalever tempted her to cancel the remembrance of Eugène Beauharnais.

For Lady Georgiana Gordon, a happier fate was reserved. She married, in1803, John, the sixth Duke of Bedford, a nobleman whose character wouldhave appeared in a more resplendent light had he not succeeded a brothersingularly endowed, and whose death was considered to be a publiccalamity. Of Francis, Duke of Bedford, who was summoned away in histhirty-seventh year, Fox said: "In his friendships, not only was hedisinterested and sincere, but in him were to be found united all thecharacteristic excellencies that have ever distinguished the men mostrenowned for that virtue. Some are warm, but volatile and inconstant; hewas warm too, but steady and unchangeable. Where his attachment wasplaced, there it remained, or rather there it grew.... If he loved youat the beginning of the year, and you did nothing to lose his esteem, hewould love you more at the end of it; such was the uniformly progressivestate of his affections, no less than of his virtue and friendship."

John, Duke of Bedford, was a widower of thirty-seven when he marriedGeorgiana, remembered as the most graceful, accomplished, and charmingof women. The duke had then five sons, the youngest of whom was LordJohn Russell, and the eldest Francis, the present duke. By his secondduchess, Georgiana, the duke had also a numerous family. She surviveduntil 1853. The designs formed by the duchess to marry Lady Georgiana toPitt first, and then to Eugène Beauharnais, rest on the authority ofWraxall, who knew the family of the Duke of Gordon personally; but hedoes not state them as coming from his own knowledge. "I have goodreason," he says, "for believing them to be founded in truth. They comefrom very high authority."

Notwithstanding the preference evinced by the Prince of Wales for theDuchess of Devonshire, he was at this time on very intimate terms withher rival in the sphere of fashion, and passed a part of almost everyevening in the society of the Duchess of Gordon. She treated him withthe utmost familiarity, and even on points of great delicacy expressedherself very freely. The attention of the public had been for some timedirected toward the complicated difficulties of the Prince of Wales'ssituation. His debts had now become an intolerable burden; and allapplications to his royal father being unavailing, it was determined byhis friends to throw his Royal Highness on the generosity of the Houseof Commons. At the head of those who hoped to relieve the prince of hisembarrassments were Lord Loughborough, Fox, and Sheridan. Theministerial party were under the guidance of Pitt, who avowed hisdetermination to let the subject come to a strict investigation.

This investigation referred chiefly to the prince's marriage with Mrs.Fitzherbert, who, being a Roman Catholic, was peculiarly obnoxious bothto the court and to the country, notwithstanding her virtues, hersalutary influence over the prince, and her injuries.

During this conjuncture the Duchess of Gordon acted as mediator betweenthe two conflicting parties, alternately advising, consoling, and evenreproving the prince, who threw himself on her kindness. Nothing couldbe more hopeless than the prince's affairs if an investigation into thesource of his difficulties took place; nothing could be less desired byhis royal parents than a public exposure of his life and habits. Theworld already knew enough and too much, and were satisfied that he wasactually married to Mrs. Fitzherbert. At this crisis, the base falsehoodwhich denied that union was authorised by the prince, connived at bySheridan, who partly gave it out in the House, and consummated by Fox. Amemorable, a melancholy scene was enacted in the House of Commons on the8th of April, 1787,--a day that the admirers of the Whig leaders wouldgladly blot out from the annals of the country. Rolle, afterward LordRolle, having referred to the marriage, Fox adverted to his allusion,stating it to be a low, malicious calumny. Rolle, in reply, admitted thelegal impossibility of the marriage, but maintained "that there weremodes in which it might have taken place." Fox replied that he denied itin point of fact, as well as of law, the thing never having been done inany way. Rolle then asked if he spoke from authority. Fox answered inthe affirmative, and here the dialogue ended, a profound silencereigning throughout the House and the galleries, which were crowded toexcess. This body of English gentlemen expressed their contempt morefully by that ominous stillness, so unusual in that assembly, than anyeloquence could have done. Pitt stood aloof; dignified, contemptuous,and silent. Sheridan challenged from Rolle some token of satisfaction atthe information; but Rolle merely returned that he had indeed receivedan answer, but that the House must form their own opinion on it. In thediscussions which ensued, a channel was nevertheless opened for mutualconcessions--which ended eventually in the relief of the prince frompecuniary embarrassments, part of which were ascribed to the king'shaving appropriated to his own use the revenues of the duchy ofCornwall, and refusing to render any account of them on the prince'scoming of age. It was the mediation of the Duchess of Gordon thatbrought the matter promptly to a conclusion, and through herrepresentations, Dundas was sent to Canton House, to ascertain from theprince the extent of his liabilities; an assurance was given thatimmediate steps would be taken to relieve his Royal Highness. Theinterview was enlivened by a considerable quantity of wine; and after apretty long flow of the generous bowl, Dundas's promises wereenergetically ratified. Never was there a man more "malleable," to useWraxall's expression, than Harry Dundas. Pitt soon afterward had anaudience equally amicable with the prince.

From this period until after the death of Pitt, in 1806, the Duchess ofCordon's influence remained in the ascendant. The last years of the manwhom she had destined for her son-in-law, and who had ever been on termsof the greatest intimacy with her, were clouded. Pitt had the misfortunenot only of being a public man,--for to say that is to imply a sacrificeof happiness,--but to be a public man solely. He would turn neither tomarriage, nor to books, nor to agriculture, nor even to friendship, forthe repose of a mind that could not, from insatiable ambition, findrest. He died involved in debt--in terror and grief for his country. Heis said never to have been in love. At twenty-four he had the sagacity,the prudence, the reserve of a man of fifty. His excess in wineundermined his constitution, but was source of few comments when hiscompanions drank more freely than men in office had ever been known todo since the time of Charles II. Unloved he lived; and alone, uncaredfor, unwept, he died. That he was nobly indifferent to money, that hehad a contempt for everything mean, or venal, or false, was, in thosedays, no ordinary merit.

During the whirl of gaiety, politics, and matchmaking, the Duchess ofGordon continued to read, and to correspond with Beattie upon topics ofless perishable interest than the factions of the hour. Beattie sent herhis "Essay on Beauty" to read in manuscript; he wrote to her aboutPetrarch, about Lord Monboddo's works, and Burke's book on the FrenchRevolution,--works which the duchess found time to read and wished toanalyse. Their friendship, so honoured to her, continued until hisdeath in 1803.

The years of life that remained to the Duchess of Gordon must have beengladdened by the birth of her grandchildren, and by the promise of hersons George, afterward Duke of Gordon, and Alexander. The illness ofGeorge III., the trials of Hastings and of Lord Melville, the generalwar, were the events that most varied the political world, in which sheever took a keen interest. She died in 1812, and the duke married soonafterward Mrs. Christie, by whom he had no children.

The dukedom of Gordon became extinct at his death; and the presentrepresentative of this great family is the Marquis of Huntley.

GEORGIANA, DUCHESS OF DEVONSHIRE

[Illustration: Georgiana, Duchess of Devonshire From the painting byGainsborough]

GEORGIANA, DUCHESS OF DEVONSHIRE

Notwithstanding the purity of morals enjoined by the court of GeorgeIII., the early period of his reign presents a picture of dissolutemanners as well as of furious party spirit. The most fashionable of ourladies of rank were immersed in play or devoted to politics; the samespirit carried them into both. The Sabbath was disregarded, spent oftenin cards or desecrated by the meetings of partisans of both factions;moral duties were neglected and decorum outraged.

The fact was that a minor court had become the centre of all the badpassions and reprehensible pursuits in vogue. Carlton House, in PallMall, which even the oldest of us can barely remember, with its elegantscreen, open, with pillars in front, its low exterior, its many smallrooms, the vulgar taste of its decorations, and, to crown the whole, theassociations of a corrupting revelry with the whole place,--Canton Housewas, in the days of good King George, almost as great a scandal to thecountry as Whitehall in the time of improper King Charles II.

The influence which the example of a young prince, of manners eminentlypopular, produced upon the young nobility of the realm must be takeninto account in the narrative of that life which was so brilliant and somisspent; so blessed at its onset, so dreary in its close--the life ofGeorgiana, Duchess of Devonshire. Descended in the third degree fromSarah, Duchess of Marlborough, Georgiana Spencer is said to haveresembled her celebrated ancestress in the style of her beauty. She wasborn in 1757. Her father, John, created Earl of Spencer in 1765, was theson of the reprobate "Jack Spencer," as he was styled, the misery atonce and the darling of his grandmother, Sarah, who idolised herTorrismond, as she called him, and left him a considerable portion ofher property. Whilst the loveliness of Sarah descended to GeorgianaSpencer, she certainly inherited somewhat of the talent, the recklessspirits, and the imprudence of her grandfather, "Jack;" neither could acareful education eradicate these hereditary characteristics.

Her mother was the daughter of a commoner, the Right Honourable StephenPoyntz, of Midgham, in Berkshire. This lady was long remembered both byfriends and neighbours with veneration. She was sensible andintelligent, polite, agreeable, and of unbounded charity; but MissBurney, who knew her, depicts her as ostentatious in her exertions, andsomewhat self-righteous and vainglorious. She was, however, ferventlybeloved by her daughter, who afterward made several pecuniary sacrificesto ensure her mother's comfort. The earliest years of Lady Georgiana (asshe became after her father was created an earl) were passed in thelarge house at Holywell, close to St. Albans, built by the famous Dukeof Marlborough on his wife's patrimonial estate. Aged people, somefifteen years ago, especially a certain neighbouring clergyman,remembered going to play at cards in this house; and the neighbourlyqualities of Lady Spencer, as much as her benevolence to the poor,endeared her much to the gentry around. She exercised not only theduties of charity, but the scarcely minor ones of hospitality andcourtesy to her neighbours. Before the opening of railroads, such dutieswere more especially requisite to keep together the scattered members ofcountry society. Good feelings were engendered, good manners promoted,and the attachment then felt for old families had a deeper foundationthan servility or even custom. As Lady Georgiana grew up, she displayeda warm impressionable nature, a passion for all that was beautiful in